


The Clues He Missed

by maryagrawatson



Series: Mina [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby Watson, Gen, John is a Bit Not Good, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson/pseuds/maryagrawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Moriarty's return, John finds Sherlock behaving strangely. Only, he's not. John makes a deduction about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clues He Missed

I've just started the washing up while Mary is putting Mina down when my phone rings. I'm tempted to ignore it, but something feels off. I wipe my hands and answer it.  
  
Forty minutes later, I'm getting out of a cab in front an abandoned house in a part of town that I wouldn't walk around in after dark. I hope that Sherlock wasn't here to score a hit...

A PC runs over to me. She's the one who called me, Mulvaney. I don't remember her at all, but she obviously did me because she's the one who knew who to call in Sherlock's long list of contacts.  
  
She takes me around the corner of a brick building, where I find Sherlock sitting on an upturned crate, hunched over, hands cuffed behind his back, and with a shock blanket over his shoulders. I still don't know what this is all about.  
  
"Is he under arrest?" I whisper. For anybody else, we'd still be outside earshot, but Sherlock has ears like a bat.  
She shakes her head. "No. We had to restrain him to calm him down. From what we can gather, he came across a punk torturing a dog and lost it. Broke the guy's nose and got in a few other punches. My partner and I just happened to be coming by and pulled him off before he did anything worse than that. The kid's not going to press charges."  
  
A dog. Whenever I think I've figured out Sherlock Holmes, he does something like this to baffle me.  
  
"How's the dog?" I ask.  
"I really don't know. My partner transported him to a nearby vet. Beautiful Irish setter. Sherlock must really love dogs."  
"Yeah..."  
  
She hands me the handcuff key. I give her a grateful smile.  
  
I approach Sherlock slowly.  
  
"Hey," I say softly as I kneel next to him, my knees popping.  
"He was hurting Redbeard," Sherlock replies, his voice flat.  
  
For the first time since I've known him, I get a glimpse of what it's like in Sherlock's head. I flash to his brother Mycroft telling me, years back, how Sherlock wanted to be a pirate when he grew up. And then, I flash to my limited knowledge of famous pirates and make a deduction. Sherlock had an Irish setter named Redbeard as a child.  
  
Oh.  
  
I clue onto something else at this moment, something I've ignored in the nearly two years since Sherlock's been back from the dead. This is just one little thing in a whole series of little things he's done since he's been back that don't make sense to me because I'm still looking at him like he's the man who jumped off that roof. Just like that, in a flash of twenty seconds, I twig onto the fact that I don't know Sherlock anymore and that I've missed something big.  
  
"One of the PCs took the dog to a clinic," I say in as reassuring a tone as I can.  
"Hmpf." A beat, then, "I know it wasn't Redbeard."  
"Okay. I'm going to get those cuffs off you now, if it's okay to touch you."  
  
I take his shrug as an okay to proceed and I make as quick work of the cuffs as I can. Sherlock's hands drop down for a minute, then come up to pull the blanket more tightly around himself. Now, I'm really concerned.  
  
"Dr. Watson?"  
  
I look up to see Constable Mulvaney gesturing at me. I give her the handcuffs and key, then wait while she scribbles down the name of the clinic where the dog was taken. She says that the vet's initial assessment is that the dog is going to be just fine and that I can call in the morning for an update.  
  
"Looks like the dog will be okay," I tell Sherlock when I'm back by his side. "Come home with me."  
  
I text Mary in the cab. When we get in, she has a hot bath drawn for Sherlock and the sofa made up. When he comes out of the bathroom dressed in one of my dressing gowns over a pair of my shorts and a tee-shirt, she makes him have tea and toast and then puts him to bed with an ice pack for his hand. He doesn't say a word.  
  
I wake up to one of my favourite smells in the world, bacon frying. Mary's still beside me, snoring gently.  
  
I pad into the kitchen to find Sherlock at the hob, attending to scrambled eggs, bacon, and potatoes. Mina is in her high chair, playing with some Cheerios and a sippy cup a quarter full of apple juice.  
"Morning?" I ask him tentatively.  
Sherlock turns to give me a wan smile. "Morning. Coffee?"  
I nod and sit at the table while Sherlock fixes my coffee. His hand looks swollen, but he doesn't seem to be having any trouble with it. "Did you get any sleep?"  
"Yes."  
"That's good."  
  
I sip my coffee as Sherlock lowers the heat on the elements and moves to the toaster. "Mary still sleeping?"  
"She was stirring when I got out of the loo."  
Sherlock pops four slices of bread into the toaster, then starts dishing out the food, giving Mina some scrambled eggs and a few cubes of potatoes.  
  
This bit of domesticity is another small clue that the Sherlock who came back isn't the Sherlock who left. I don't know why I'm so surprised, when I missed all the huge ones, like Sherlock turning into a wedding planner extraordinaire and, you know, murdering a man in cold blood to protect my family. He came back so fragile and, I realise suddenly, lonely. God, I'm utter shit friend, aren't I?  
  
Sherlock and Mary do the washing up together after breakfast, so I head to the lounge to call the vet.  
  
"Good news," I tell Sherlock as he and Mary join me a half hour later. "All the dog's wounds were superficial. She'll be released to a shelter this afternoon. They'll try to find her owner."  
"Hmpf."

 *** * * * * * * * * ***  
  
The rest of the month passes in a blur. Mina's teething, so Mary and I aren't getting much sleep, and the clinic is running at about one hundred fifty percent of its normal pace. I am exhausted and stretched thin, but I make it a point to carve out time for Sherlock, although I don't help him on any cases. I take an afternoon off for a visit to my dentist near Baker Street and decide to pop in unannounced to see if he wants to join me for an early supper.  
  
I call out to him as I come up the stairs to the first floor landing and Sherlock's reply comes from the lounge. I enter the flat to find him on the couch, a mass of red fur curled up against him with a matching head in his lap.  
  
I grin.  
  
"New girlfriend?" I tease him.  
He looks up and blesses me with one of his rare unguarded smiles. "No one reported her missing."  
"What did Mrs. Hudson have to say?"  
"Same thing my mother did thirty years ago. That she's my responsibility, I'd better pick up after her, bla bla bla. Dull."  
I laugh. "What's her name?"  
"Anney, with an E-Y. For the Irish pirate Anne Bonny from the early 18th century."  
I grin again. "Do you know how old she is?"  
"The vet estimates between six and eight."  
  
Anney whimpers in her sleep and burrows more deeply against Sherlock. He strokes his long fingers through the silky fur at her nape and looks more peaceful than I have ever seen him, even more so than when he's minding Mina.  
  
"Did you want to get dinner?" I ask him.  
"You look tired," he replies. "Let's get a takeaway."  
  
Even better.  
  
I order curry for two and get a couple of beers out of the fridge. And that's another subtle clue I've missed. Sherlock didn't start stocking beer again until I started popping around more often for nights like these, unpressured and just content to sit quietly with him.

When we lived together, the beer meant something different. He started bringing it home for me sometimes after Sarah and I split up. It was his way of acknowledging that he understood I'd had a shit day, of being supportive. But now, the beer means that he's expecting company just for the sake of company. Last time I was here for a night like this, the twelve-pack was new. We had two each, leaving eight. Tonight, there are four left. Sherlock doesn't drink beer on his own, so that means Greg's been by, just to hang out. That's new, too.  
  
We watch a little telly while we eat. It's almost like the old days, just being together, except that Sherlock is so much quieter and he's not thrumming with energy. He genuinely appears content to watch Jonathan Creek with me, sipping beer and rubbing Anney's ears.  
  
It hits me suddenly that he's probably tired. He came back from his two years doing God knows what to throw himself into the wedding prep and then the Magnussen business came up. He spent almost half a year in hospital and wasn't even anywhere near back to full strength when he was sent on the aborted suicide mission. I'm not completely stupid. I deduced _that_.  
  
So thank God that Moriarty wound up not being the guy we thought he was (who turned out to actually BE an actor named Richard Brook under the employ of the real Moriarty. Seriously.) and that Sherlock had to come back to deal with that mess, which he did, and which earned him a stay of execution and a royal pardon and the threat of a knighthood. Again.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
"Mmm?"  
"I never asked you, properly, about your time away."  
He waves his hand dismissively. "Ancient history."  
  
It is, but it isn't, and I know that I blew my chance. I should have asked him when he came back instead of being so angry with him. I'm disgusted with how long it took me to realise that he didn't fake his death because it would be something fun to do. That he did it to protect the people he loved, for the same reason he blew Magnussen away. And I regret bringing it up tonight, because I can feel Sherlock tense up.  
  
Christ, I can't even imagine what I could do for Sherlock to pay him back for everything he's sacrificed for me. And then, it comes to me. This. That's all he wants, to know that he's important to me, that I have time for him even between work and family obligations. That even if it can't be like 'the best of times', we can be Us in this new context. Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes, just the two of us against the rest of the world.  
  
I don't miss the life-threatening cases. Like Mary, I'm content with a less dangerous and mundane life now that we have Mina to think about. I'm getting older and creakier and Sherlock is, too. I've noticed that he goes for cases that require less legwork now. He's happy to stand in a crime scene, make his deductions, and then let the Met do the dirty work of bringing the criminal in. Working with Sherlock again wouldn't have to mean risking my life, just the odd sleepless night and I get plenty of those with Mina. There's no reason I can't spend a few hours a month working cases with Sherlock. Every man needs a hobby.  
  
Sherlock yawns and stretches. I hear his shoulder joints pop. "I need to take Anney for her last walk."  
"Sure. I'll walk with you for a bit, then grab a cab."  
  
Sherlock shrugs on his coat, ties his scarf, then clips a leash to Anney's collar. She's obviously eager to go out, tail wagging madly, but waits patiently for him to start down the stairs. They were obviously made for each other, fitting just right, the way Sherlock and I used to and might, one day, do so again.  
  
As we walk down Baker Street, I ask Sherlock if he can mind Mina next weekend so I can surprise Mary with a mini break to Paris; it's so rare that we both get a whole weekend off at the same time. Sherlock's quick to say yes.

That he's so good with Mina, even found the time to take a whole child minding course before she was born, is something that never surprised me. Sherlock loves Mary and me and so I knew he would love Mina. His parents are also available to mind her, but they live several hours outside of London and are often in America. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, is unsuitable for anything but a few hours of afternoon care because she spends her evenings baked out of her mind. Janine and Greg sometimes take her, but Sherlock's always our first choice because he makes it seem like we're doing him a bigger favour than he is for us.  
  
We get to a small park and Sherlock lets Anney loose, throwing a ball that he's pulled out of his pocket. She chases it and brings it back to me. Smiling, I throw it and she brings it back to Sherlock. We play at this for a good ten minutes until Anney flops down at Sherlock's feet.  
  
"I'm glad you found each other," I say.  
"Me too."  
"Sherlock, are you okay?"  
He looks at me for a moment. "What are you asking?"  
"I'm not sure."  
"I'm not taking drugs..." he says slowly.  
I shake my head. "I know you're not. I just... I just realised you've been sad for a long time."  
"Oh. Then, yes. I'm okay."  
  
He doesn't deny what I said, another little clue that I'm talking to Sherlock 2.0.  
  
"Good. You know, I think it's time I started the blog back up." Sherlock looks taken aback by that. "You've done a couple of good ones lately. The frozen guy up the tree in the middle of a July heat wave warrants particular sharing. I still can't believe you traced the plane he fell out of."  
"He fell out of the wheel well of the plane," Sherlock corrects me and I give him a playful shove. "So if you start up the blog again, does that mean you're joining me sometimes?"  
"My terms are that I can say no without you having a fit, that I can break for sleep and food when I want, and, possibly, after I discuss it Mary, that we sometimes use our spare room to work, so I can be available for Mina. And I don't want to get kidnapped."  
"Deal."  
"What are your terms?"  
"I can't think of any. I'm obviously getting the better end of this deal."  
  
I feel guilty. Spending time with me is so important to him, for some unfathomable reason considering the colossal arse I've been since he got back, that he wants to do it all on my terms.  
  
"I can think of a term for you," I say finally.  
"What's that?"  
"No more jabs at you on the blog."  
"I'd like that," he says softly.  
  
Christ, the man does love me. I bet he doesn't even realise how much he should dislike me. What a revelation tonight, to learn that I'm the jerk of the relationship, not the self-professed sociopath.  
  
"John?"  
I shake my head. "Nothing." I exhale deeply. "Have I ever told you just how lucky I am to have you in my life?"  
Sherlock frowns. We don't do this. We're not just men, we're British men. I'm treading into dangerous territory. "John..."  
"That's it. It's all I wanted to say."  
  
He nods, still looking confused, like this is a three-person conversation and he's missing a third of it. Which he is.

*** * * * * * * * * ***

Mary and I come back from Paris late next Sunday evening, going straight to Baker Street to pick up Mina. We find Sherlock lying on his bed on top of the covers, flat on his back in his pajamas, snoring to wake the dead, a trickle of drool down one side of his open mouth. Mina is curled up on his chest, sleeping soundly. Anney is between his legs, snoring almost as loudly as Sherlock.  
  
Mary claps a hand over her face to stifle her laugh. Tears start to stream down her face as her shoulders shake and it's all I can do not to burst out laughing, too. I snap a couple of pictures and a few seconds of video, and then we head downstairs to catch a cab.  
  
On the way home, I text Sherlock the video and a picture, then follow up with a message. "Didn't want to disturb. Drop her off in AM? Mary'll make French toast."  
  
It's just past midnight, with Mary and me drooping on the sofa, that he texts back. "Greg is going to want to see that video."

That's new, too.  
  
I really like this new Sherlock and I can't wait to get to know him. I make a mental note to be kinder to him than I was to the older version.

**Author's Note:**

> From discussions I've seen in forums, fans seem polarized about series 3 John. Some see the same seemingly sweet John from series 1 and 2 and others are appalled by his treatment of Sherlock and unwillingness to understand the reasons for Sherlock faking his death. I'm in the latter category because of one line in HLV, where John says, "He's Sherlock. Who would he bother protecting?" Wow.
> 
> I consider John's blog to be part of canon. In it, we learn that Sherlock actually went shopping and got beer for John after he learned of the breakup with Sarah!!! Google "john watson blog beer feet" if you haven't been to the blog yet.
> 
> Finally, Mina is from Wilhelmina, the female form of William. Because I think that's a non-obvious way for Mary and John to name their daughter after Sherlock. :)


End file.
